Coffee Black
by Remy2
Summary: B/S darkfic vignette -- written pre-S6. Rated R for blood, and some vague sexual content.


TITLE: Coffee Black (1/1)   
AUTHOR: Remy Allegory (remyallegory@yahoo.com)   
TIMEFRAME: Started 9-24-01 / Finished 9-24-01   
RATING: R, for bad words and blood.   
SPOILERS: None, unless you're way out of the loop and read between lines.   
SUMMARY: Our experiences form who we are -- or, aren't. A little, B/S vignette. Set post-resurrection   
DISTRIBUTION: Take and ye shall receive. Just send me the address so I can be narcissistic and stuff.   
FEEDBACK: "Is James Marsters hot?" -Wanda   
DISCLAIMER: Count Von Whedon owns it all. I am but a poor serf who thinks too much.   
  
  
COFFEE BLACK   
"I am covered in skin // No one gets to come in // Pull me out from inside // I am folded   
and unfolded and unfolding // I am ready I am ready I am ready // I am Fine."   
"Colorblind," Counting Crows   
  
  
There's quiet desperation in running blood. In something so red it's almost   
blue, pooling in the dips of fine lines and soft skin soft lips. A hungry   
despondency borne of past experience and its definition of love, of hazy   
lines between pain and pleasure, anger equals interest equals love. Simple   
arithmetic construed and blurred so there are no longer any lines, there is   
no hurt and there is no peace, only sore muscles and the act of feeling.   
  
It's a process, now.   
  
The same song playing in the background, the slight buzz of a piano key or a   
violin string gnawing at whatever concentration it's stealing, whatever   
eardrum it's raping; the same silk undergarments, cool and somewhat itchy,   
but matching and part of the sadistic tradition that has formed for reasons   
neither can truly name or fathom; the razorblade he always tries to hide, hide in   
her wooden dresser or under the mattress, where he always hides it, where   
she always finds it, silver and sharp and thin, liquid almost.   
  
The same words whispering in the spaces between ears; words he can't ignore   
and she can't stop spewing; she's such an influential girl. He's wanted her   
skin for so long, and he won't stop wanting it, because he's forever, because he   
exists in something outside of time. And she gives him what he needs to hear and   
he gives her what she wants, even though it will probably be the third-death of   
her, someday, when his lips suckling her flesh isn't enough, when the blade   
becomes too dull to break the skin, when the scars fade, when the music   
stops and the pain becomes pain again, in that brief moment of white-hot   
clarity that preludes the slick-black wings of death...no, the wings of   
something *worse* than death, the fallen velvet curtain of slow   
self-destruction.   
  
A black soul is moon-ivory against a black heart.   
  
The barbed edge of her hoary savior floats above the sallow skin formed by   
the lines of her watch, the big bulky blue watch she wears to hide the   
marks. And here it comes, his pleading hurt angry voice: "Stop that." But he   
won't waste the energy of saying anything more, because it's futile, because   
it's air, because he knows: some part of him doesn't care.   
  
"I can't."   
  
The sting is exquisite, like ice across her xylophone spine. It's a   
tuesday-night ritual of marring perfect flesh because she hates perfect   
flesh. Because everything should be flawed and nothing is deserving of a   
second chance and nobody deserves to come back.   
  
And she came back.   
  
She slices horizontally, to avoid full-fledged suicide; she likes to believe she's   
stronger than that. Her thighs tighten their clutch on his waist as she   
straddles him, so he can't bail, though she suspects he's too   
weak-willed to want to. He closes his eyes in defeat, in failure, in shame   
for his broken promises and anemic threats and rapidly hardening   
anticipation.   
  
It boils to the surface quickly, as though it had always been there, just   
never quite as dark. She watches it for a moment; then: "Spike...drink."   
  
She vaguely remembers an ex-boyfriend with such a nasty habit. She kicked   
his skull in and he left because he had been everything and everything   
wasn't enough. She'll remember his name if she tries. She never tries.   
  
He hesitates because it's wrong, and this matters because it's *Her* resting   
on his stomach, because it's Buffy offering herself. Because she dies a   
little more each time closes his eyes and he remembers how bad it was the first   
time she left, and now it's *him* driving her away. He'll have no one else to   
share the blame, and this time, when he blames himself, it will not be   
empty.   
  
Her arm is shaking slightly as he clasps his long, slender fingers around   
her bony wrist and pulls it closer to his thirsty lips, but it's okay   
because his hands are always shaking. His mind absently registers the irony   
that is his unlife. Then: So much blood for skin and bone. And once again   
it returns to Nothing as he licks, first, with his cold, cat-like tongue,   
tracing small designs on the wrist, sometimes random letters of the   
alphabet, vowels followed by the more jagged letters, sometimes her name,   
sometimes juvenile symbols of guilt or hope; then, as he swallows the first   
of her blood, tasting the acid of this morning's rain, the grease of   
yesterday's chicken, the very slight coppery-tang that he knows is Angel.   
(How He got there, Spike doesn't know.)   
  
And if the razorblade splicing her wrist is the pain of ice, then this is   
the pain of fire, igniting in between her thighs and toes and over her gut   
and collarbone.   
  
Jesus fucking christ it feels good.   
  
He drinks so little, enough to make him want to vomit, and it's barely   
anything. Her heart hasn't even begun to slow. But his throat closes itself   
off, and he knows if he doesn't stop now he'll be tasting her for days.   
  
The moment he tears his head away she has her mouth on his, devouring it, as   
though she were searching specifically for the taste of her own blood; or   
maybe she's searching for his, because she bites down on his lower lip,   
splitting skin with her incisors, as her hands worm their way through the   
buttons of his jeans, over the course, light hair of his lower-abdomen,   
before working their way downward towards the darker curls.   
  
And with the same force her desperation had consumed him, it releases him.   
She's inherently angry, but instincts can be disowned. Her frustrated   
disposition, her lack of understanding and like-minded companions, her need   
to hurt and appease - they disappear like dust in front of the fan. Sad   
fingers rip clothing, but her fingers are only caressing.   
  
This is what he drinks to.   
  
No more teeth or talons or sharp objects. Just warmth, glimpses of the girl   
he fell in love with and can't let go, of what she was before things went so   
very bad. Before the blooming bruises and bloodletting and silent tears.   
  
He can feel her healthy heartbeat as she stretches out on top of him, gently   
kissing and licking and nipping the soft skin under his chin, trailing her   
way down his neck, then, quickly, back up to his lips, where she lingers for   
quite some time, apparently content, but he can never really tell these   
days. He steals a glance at her arm, enough to see that the wounds are   
already beginning to heal underneath the thin layer of dried blood.   
  
He needs this kind of reassurance, because he knows nothing short of unclotted   
blood will let him stop.   
  
He kisses her back.   
  
THE END 


End file.
